Post navigation

Children from hell knocking on my door

Monday night, Shawna and I are watching TV when the doorbell rings.Â The dogs, as they usuallyÂ do in these situations,Â go apeshit.Â Barking, howling, and the sounds of claws over tile fill the house.

The doorbell rings again.

The dogs continue their apeshit-ery.Â At this point, I do what I always do during these situations.Â I get off my ass and put Greta in the garage while Shawna puts Boris outside.Â Of course, Shawna desn’t put Boris outside this time.Â She sits on the couch and continues watching TV.

That girl, I love her.

So I shove all 90 pounds of Boris out of the way and look out the peephole.

It’s two children.Â A boy and girl no more than four years old are standing on my front porch.Â They don’t appear to be selling candy.Â Therefore, I have no use for them.

“Kids,” I tell Shawna.

She turns up the television.

The doorbell rings not once, but maybe a dozen times in the space of three seconds.Â Hands start pounding on the door.

“Fuck off!” Shawna yells at the air.

More doorbell.Â You’d think these little bastards have Christopher Walken yelling at them or something.Â This continues for roughly five minutes.Â Greta, trying to escape the garage so she can eat these fucking kids, has managed to get her head stuck in the cat door.Â Boris is halfway through the front door and making steady progress.Â Shawna cannot hear how the couple on TV is going to successfully Flip That House.

She leaps to her feet.Â Apparently, she is concerned one of the kids might be on fire or something.

“Grab Boris!”

I’m pretty sure that’s her job, but I do it anyway.Â Let it never be said I am not a team player.Â I manage to drag our sherman tank of a dog six feet away from the door a split second before Shawna cocks back her leg for kicking purposes and rips open the door.

“What?!”

“I’m Chase!”

Boris bolts forward, and I wrestle him to the ground.Â A few thoughts jump out at me.Â 1: Hey, it’s Chase!Â 2: Wait a sec. Who the fuck is Chase? 3: Chase, I’m pretty goddamn sure I hate you.

“What do you want?” Shawna asks.Â

“Can we come in?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is my house.”

“Let us in!” Chase speaks in a singsong voicee that makes me want to let go of Boris.Â In case you haven’t guessed, Shawna and I do not have kids, nor do we plan to breed at any time in the, well, ever.

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know you.”

“I’m Chase!”

“That’s great, but I still don’t know you.”

At this point, Greta now has her shoulders stuck in the cat door and is trying like hell to get her front legs through.Â Boris is straining forward like he wants to eaither mount Chase or eat his face.Â The front hallway is a symphony of dog barks, but Chase’s motherfucking knife-in-my-ear singsong voice rises above it all.

“I’m Chase! Let me in!”

It dawns on me that Chase and his little sister may in fact be an evil spirit, one that will soon start singing “God Is In His Holy Temple.”

Right about now, Chase tries to shove Shawna’s leg to the side and barge in.Â Shawna very gently asserts her dominance and keeps the little hellspawn on our front porch.Â I consider letting Chase and his sister inside, asking for their home number, and then calling their moronic, I-let-my-children-run-around-the-neighborhood-unsupervised parents and saying, “I have your fucking children.”Â It occurs to me this may not be the best idea, but it stills sounds like fun.

Luckily, Shawna handles this situation much better than I.

“Go home!Â Don’t ring my doorbell again!” and slams the door.

I let go of Boris, and he runs toward the door so fast he winds up headbutting the damn thing.Â I pop Greta out of the cat door and sneak into the garage to spy on Chase and his sister.Â They’re standing in our driveway.